


Reap What You Sow

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Assassination Attempt(s), Consent Issues, Hints of Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, M/M, Sex, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-30 20:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Negotiating contracts is something Slade's more than practiced at. A lot of useless talk at long, boring gatherings, filled with nobles as miserly as they are vain. Necessary, but not interesting. The most interesting part of the night is afterwards, when he can retire to a room and enjoy whatever gift they've left him, as tradition dictates. It's especially interesting when the 'gift' is supposed to be an insult; tall, male, and only just barely obedient. His favorite type.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firefright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/gifts).



> Hello! So, back in November, Fire and I were at the end of NaNo and we were both struggling a bit to finish, so we each promised that if the other finished ('won', hitting 50k), we'd write a story for them. This one is mine! A request for 'blood bag' Jason, and I filled in Slade, and etc. Enjoy! Thanks for the motivation, Fire, darling; I know you've read this already but still, happy to write for you.
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)   
>  You can find my Pillowfort here!
> 
> (A warning, Jason is really incapable of clean consent in his position, but he does consent to the best of his ability.)

They’ve given him a gift.

It’s waiting in his room, when the night is finished and Slade’s allowed to retire without offending his hosts. Not that it would matter if he offended them; they need him. Thus, the gift.

It’s kneeling at the foot of his bed, chained to one of the posts by its wrists. A boy, draped in gold jewelry and flimsy, mainly sheer cloth of a deep red color. Shorter black hair, probably just long enough to get a good grip on, and what skin isn’t covered by the drape of fabric is smooth and tanned. Very standard for a blood slave; raised and fattened to perfection, if the masters have done their jobs right.

What’s less standard is the size of him, and the solid steel of the manacles securing him to the post of the bed. Slade closes the door with a soft click, and his head lifts to reveal a red blindfold wrapped over his eyes, and a sturdier bit of leather between his teeth. A troublemaker, this one, or they’re just trying to make him appear as one.

Slades inclined to believe it’s a small, pointed reminder of his status beside these self-titled ‘lords.’ They may need his army, but they’re unlikely to ever see him as equal to them, with their long histories and old families. As if he cares that the ‘gift’ they’ve sent him is likely the failure of their stock. Maybe it’s even an insult that they’ve sent him a male instead of a female, meaning to deny him the enjoyment after a feed. If that’s the case, Slade’s firmly come out the victor. Maybe it’s looked down on, but Slade’s always preferred boys, if the choice exists.

The boy shifts, as Slade throws the bolt on the door before coming to him. He can hear the breathing pick up, and as the boy’s head lifts further, tracking his progress, he can see a key resting against his chest, tied by a thin red ribbon around his throat. It rests just between the fine definition of his pectorals, just above the string to the fabric that keeps the rest of him somewhat hidden. The one for the manacles, probably.

He studies the boy as he strips away the finery from the gathering, tossing his cloak away to the corner of the bed, and unbuckling his sword to set it there as well. The boy’s heart is pounding. Most likely he dreads the unknown Slade represents, whether that’s because he’s a visitor, or because this is all new to him.

Wouldn’t that be interesting.

When he shrugs out of his vest, leaving only the loose white shirt beneath, he sinks to a crouch beside the boy. The touch of his hand is met with a sharp flinch, chains rattling as the boy pulls against the manacles.

“Easy,” Slade murmurs, tugging the blindfold from the boy’s head. His eyes blink open, a pretty shade of blue-green that’s probably what got him noticed to begin with. “Hello there, boy.”

He wonders if the boy was told what to expect, or whether his appearance (and gender) is a complete surprise. By the way the boy’s looking at him, gaze flicking across his form to try and take it in, darting to the side to look at the discarded pile of his outer clothing and sword, Slade would guess that no, no one told the boy who he was being given to.

It also confirms his guess that the boy is the ‘failure’ of their raised stock; a blood slave raised to be gifted would have better manners than to stare, if they’d taken to the training.

Slade lets his fingers drift to the cord holding the leather bit in place, tugging lightly at it. Only enough to reinforce his question when he asks, “A loose tongue, or do you have a habit of biting, boy?” with a smirk.

His eyes narrow, teeth digging into the bit as they’re flashed at him. An attitude, hm? Slade’s never trained any himself, but he understands it can be difficult to fix a blood slave that doesn’t agree with the training, given the impetus not to leave behind any scarring or imperfection during punishment, physical or mental. A broken gift is almost as worthless as having no gift at all.

A moment of focus sharpens his nails to claws, and the pass of one snaps the cord. The boy immediately spits the bit out. Slade half expects him to say something, but he just wets his lips, gaze rising to meet his directly. Bravely defiant, or hoping that he’ll just be enthralled and not have to be fully aware of any of the rest of this. There’s fear at the edges of his expression, but nothing paralyzing.

Slade lifts an eyebrow, then takes the ribbon for the key between his fingers and pulls it away; it comes loose easily, tied by a bow at the back that quickly unravels. The boy watches, wary, as he shifts to a knee and unlocks the manacles, one wrist at a time. The skin’s slightly reddened beneath, but the boy apparently knows better than to pull too hard; he hasn’t bruised himself, or cut the skin.

Then again, he wouldn't have survived long if he didn't know how to avoid injuring himself.

He leaves the boy on the floor and gets to his feet, dropping the manacles beside the post. He pockets the key, just in case. The ribbon might be entertaining to use as well. From the corner of his eye, he sees the boy look to the exit, hands falling to his thighs and toes curling to take his weight.

“Going to run from me?” he asks, without looking down.

He won’t get away unless Slade lets him, especially not with the bolted door in the way, but if he wants to try Slade won’t mind. It’s always satisfying to indulge the predatory instincts that call to hunt and catch, however short lived the chase.

But the boy looks to him instead. “No, sir.” His voice is low enough to match his size, subservient but only barely. Yes, this is absolutely supposed to be an insult.

“Then stand.”

It takes a moment, but the boy does. The easy grace he does it with makes it clear that at least that part of his training was successful, even if his gaze immediately finds Slade’s, holding it without cringing or shying back like most would. Slade’s actually somewhat fond of defiance, when it doesn’t inconvenience him; most people don’t have the courage to challenge him in any way, no matter how small. Endless obeisance gets tiring, after a while.

The boy’s tall indeed, only a few inches shorter than him, which is impressive. His heart speeds, but he doesn’t pull away as Slade reaches for the tie of the draping cloth and pulls it apart. The sheer fabric slides, with pleasing artfulness, down the length of the boy’s body to puddle at his feet with no more than a whisper of sound. Louder, is the tinkling of the golden jewelry as the boy shivers. Slade lets himself look at everything revealed.

Delicate cuffs circle the shells of his ears, with fine golden chains dangling from them to brush his throat, which is circled in a similarly delicate golden weave that seems to be intended to look like vines. It seems to hinge at the back, but covers the entire length, a subtle reminder to not bite and scar where immediately visible. Matching armbands cling to the boy’s biceps, and cuffs at his ankles. Of most interest, though, are the chains draping down across his chest, hanging from the clip at each nipple.

Standard ornamentation, though lighter than what would generally be expected. Another part of the insult. Slade finds himself almost surprised that nothing’s been done with the limp weight of his cock; maybe the assumption was that Slade wouldn’t be interested in it.

The boy stays still under his looking, apart from a reddening flush to his cheeks. One that grows worse when Slade steps around to his back, lowering a hand to grip and pull aside one cheek. There’s no plug, as he’s sometimes encountered, but there is the faint sheen of oil. He can smell it, faintly. Most likely a simple attempt at trying to limit any injury done.

He lets go and steps away, circling back around. “What are you called, boy?”

The flush is still there, humiliation easy to read, but the boy’s voice comes out sharp. “Apparently it’s ‘boy,’ sir.”

Slade feels his mouth curl in a small smirk, an eyebrow lifting. “Alright. I get enough of ‘sir’ from my commanders; no need to call me that. Slade will do fine.”

A quick glance towards the sword lying on the bed. “Then you’re not one of the Lords?”

He lifts a hand, cupping the side of the boy’s face and tapping his thumb over the softness of his lips. “If they thought I was one of them, they wouldn’t have sent me a mouthy little thing like you, _boy_. You’re supposed to be an insult, you know.”

An increase in the pound of his heart. “And are you? Insulted?”

“Mostly just amused.” He dips the tip of his thumb between the boy’s lips for a moment, just feeling the wet heat of his mouth before pulling back. “Is this your first time being given, boy?”

“Yes.”

Not that Slade needed the confirmation, really. He’s an insult of a ‘gift,’ and most insulted vampires would have taken it out on him. If the boy’d been given to anyone before, he’d probably be dead, or at least maimed badly enough to no longer be worthy of being a gift at all.

He steps back, turning away to tug his shirt over his head and drop it on the pile of his things. “I’m going to fuck you, and feed from you. You can choose what order it happens in, if you want.”

The catch of breath is fully audible to his senses, as is the swallow that follows it. “Why give me the choice?”

Slade looks over his shoulder as his hands lower to his belt. “Prefer it if I didn’t?”

The boy actually scowls, for just a second. Before he seems to remember himself and wipes the look off his face, fingers flexing at his sides. “That’s not what I said, si— Slade. Just don’t tend to believe it when one of you tells me to make a decision. Usually means there’s a wrong answer and a right one.”

He’d be curious to see if all these Lords’ blood slaves are this badly trained, or if someone had just made a terrible error in judgment when choosing this boy. Usually, someone this poorly trained would never have made it as long as his age implies; he’d have been sacrificed to some hunting game or something.

Then again, maybe some woman (or man, behind closed doors) would have simply enthralled him and enjoyed the size, without caring about whether he bowed and scraped appropriately.

He turns back around, tossing his belt onto the pile as well. There’s a flicker of the boy’s gaze across his chest, and down to the open gap of his pants, before it yanks upwards. “If I say something, boy, I mean it. I’m not a trainer; I don’t care what you’re ‘supposed’ to say.” He steps forward, reaching out to tilt the boy's chin up with his fingers. "Now, choose. Or I'll make the choice myself."

The boy stares up at him, the pounding of his heart loud and fast. He's not particularly hungry, not after the gathering and the 'treats' offered there, but still the boy smells sweet. He'll taste good, undoubtedly; raised on all the finest foods, given sunshine and exercise and everything a human needs to be at the peak of physical perfection. Enough muscle to be pleasing to the eye, but not enough to spoil it. Enough sunshine to tan the skin, but not to burn it or create any flaws. The perfect blend of food to keep them healthy, fit, free of disease or taint of any kind.

Something in the boy's expression twists a little, but he speaks. Shaking, slightly, but perfectly understandable. "Sex first. And... my name is Jason."

"Jason," he says, tasting how it sounds on his tongue. Definitely not named by a master; this one was taken as a child, probably, instead of as an infant. It happens. "Sex first it is. Have you been fucked before, boy?"

A swallow, even more telling than the answer of, “Not with anything real.”

Yes, slaves like this are taught to please, whatever form that pleasing might take. Entirely plausible the boy hasn’t actually been taken yet, but he’ll have been trained how. Handy, considering Slade doesn’t particularly feel in the mood to take the time to coax him open far enough. The experience, even fake as it is, will be useful.

“That’ll do,” he grants, sliding his hand to cup the back of Jason’s skull. His hair is, as he thought, just long enough that he can curl his fingers and get a good grip, making the boy’s breath hitch slightly.

Firstly, he could do without the ornamentation. Most of it, anyway. He lifts his other hand, ignoring how the boy grows tense as it approaches, and carefully unhooks each earring. Clamps, not a piercing; they’ve left reddened indentations but no true wound. Slade discards them carelessly to the ground, on top of the silk ‘clothing,’ and reaches for the golden collar. It comes off just as easily, hinging where he thought it would and coming off as one solid piece; pretty, but not meant to withstand anything but a look.

It leaves his throat bare, and Slade takes the time to stroke his fingers down it, feeling the rush and pound of the pulse beneath the skin. Enticing. But then, so is the heave of the boy’s chest, and the far more interesting piece of jewelry there.

Slade lets his fingers drift down the hollow of the boy’s throat, down the muscle of his chest and to the chain hanging down to his belly button. He coils his fingers around it and tugs, relatively gently. Jason arches into it with a small jerk, teeth pressing together and breath whistling faint through them. There’s a building flush high on his cheeks, and when Slade takes in a shallow breath he gets the very faint traces of beginning arousal.

Entertaining as having the boy on a leash might be, he doesn’t feel like keeping track of the chain.

Beneath the clips the boy’s nipples are dark and flush with trapped blood, and he gets a flinch and a shiver when he traces his free thumb around the edges of one. Sensitive, apparently. Naturally so, or just because of the abuse?

“Take a breath, boy,” he orders, but doesn’t wait for any real acknowledgement. A quick squeeze of his fingers releases the first clamp.

The breath Jason’s just starting to take comes out as a bitten back grunt. He waits a moment, and then smirks as the boy gasps and shudders as blood rushes back into the clamped skin. It’s experience that lets him wait exactly long enough for the shudder to fade, and the boy to begin to collect himself, before releasing the other. The sound that escapes this time has a bit more breath to it, and to his amusement the boy’s chest pushes forward slightly, as if in search of more of the sensation.

He drops the chain on top of the rest of the pile.

“Good and bad, isn’t it?” he asks, sliding one hand to the small of the boy’s back and urging him forward with light pressure. He gets a half-step, just enough to press the boys hips up against his upper thighs. “The bite's like that. Pain…” He lifts his other hand to rub one nipple between thumb and finger, listening to the hard shove of an exhale and the way Jason swallows, head tilted back to keep eyes on his face. “But after that comes pleasure. Every touch magnified. Heightened. There's a reason some of you become addicted to it, you know.”

“Don't think you have to sell me on it,” the boy points out, fingers curling at his sides. “Going to happen regardless of whether I want it, isn't it?”

He lets one corner of his mouth curl up. “Yes, but emotion flavors you, boy. Different chemicals in your blood, different tastes. Fear's not my favorite.”

“What is?” the boy asks, words hitching slightly as Slade pinches the nipple between his fingers. Not cruelly, just enough to be felt.

He hums noncommittally, abandoning the abused flesh to lift his hand to Jason's face instead. His fingers trace a heated cheekbone, and the shell of an ear, before sliding into the boy's hair.

“Satisfaction,” he murmurs, lowering his head to the other side of the boy's neck. He lowers his voice to a rumble, pressing his lips to the bared skin. "Sated pleasure, when you're languid and relaxed. Pliable. There's a richness to the taste, then. It takes time, and effort, but the journey itself is..." Slade smiles, presses his mouth to just underneath the corner of Jason's jaw, where the pulse of his veins is strongest. " _Highly_ enjoyable."

The smell of the boy's arousal is only growing. The layer of fabric in the way makes it less obvious, but he can just barely feel how the cock pressed against one of his thighs twitches.

"So, what—” The boy's voice is breathy, a touch shaken. "What if I'd picked feeding, first?"

"Then I'd have fed. It's not my favorite, boy, but it's not unpalatable." He traces his fingers up the boy's spine, listening to the hitch in his breathing, the soft exhalation that accompanies the faint arch of his back. "It would have been perfunctory. A simple feed and fuck; enthralled humans aren't my favorite either."

"Why not?"

Slade nips at the corner of the boy's jaw, just enough to make him flinch. "Full of questions, aren't you?" He shifts back to look Jason in the eyes. "How about an agreement, boy? You do what I tell you to, you get to ask a question. I'll even give you an honest answer."

For a couple moments Jason just studies him. Then he nods, with all the gravity of it being some life-or-death negotiation and not a simple game. “Alright. Deal.”

The chuckle comes unbidden. He eases his grip in the boy’s hair, stroking fingers down the nape of his neck. “Deal.” Amusement more than anything pushes him to straighten up before he orders, “Kiss me, boy.”

Jason eyes the sudden distance between their mouths, the extra four or five inches Slade’s put there, and scowls a little bit. Just for a moment, then one hand comes forward to brace against Slade’s shoulder — warm skin, smooth and uncalloused — and he pushes up on his toes to bridge the gap. Slade hums encouragement at the first brush of his lips, letting his eye close as the hand on his shoulder becomes an arm instead, weight bracing down across his upper back as the boy presses to him. Wary, but not shy once he knows what he has to do, apparently. That’s enough to earn a bit of cooperation.

The tightening of his fingers on the back of the boy’s neck earns a sharp inhalation, and he chases the air into his mouth with a tongue. His other hand puts pressure at the small of Jason’s back, pressing the heat of how vibrantly alive he is tighter against his chest as he explores the taste of his mouth. The rhythm of his heart jumps, rises, echoing through the touch of their skin into the long dormant stillness of Slade’s own heart.

He releases the boy only when he begins to show signs of needing more air than he can get through the quick inhalations from his nose, but he can’t help biting lightly at the temptation of the bottom lip as he withdraws. Hard enough to sting, but not enough to break the skin. It’s tempting to angle his teeth a little differently, nick him with the point of a fang just to have a taste, but his restraint earns him a press of the boy’s hips up against his. Internally, as Jason takes advantage of the reprieve to breathe deeper, Slade reminds himself that the wait will be more than worth it. He knows that from experience, even if it’s always a test of patience to refrain from skipping to the end of things.

Jason’s eyes flicker open, lifting to meet his gaze. His cheeks are flushed, mouth parted and lips reddened and damp. It’s an attractive picture.

The boy swallows, wetting his lips with the quick slide of a tongue with seeming thoughtlessness. Then, voice rough and still breathless, asks, “Why don’t you like enthralled humans?”

It’s almost enough to make him laugh again.

“Single-minded, aren’t you?” he teases, but there’s no true annoyance in him. It’s entertaining.

The fingers at his back ease their pressure, as if the boy wants to draw away from him. Perhaps taking his amusement as rejection. “You said I could ask questions.”

“I did.” Far be it from him to not honor his deals. “I prefer a bit of challenge, and more honest reactions. Enthralled humans are desperate to please; mindless and uncaring what you do to them as long as it’s your pleasure.” He strokes Jason’s back, holding his gaze. “I don’t find it interesting.”

Jason arches a little under the pass of his hand, the breath he takes hitching slightly. The weight of his cock’s a little more noticeable now where it’s pressed to him.

He lets the hand on the boy’s back drop, skipping the temptation of his ass to grip the back of his thigh instead. The flush he gets is still vivid. “My turn,” he murmurs. “Jump for me, boy. Legs around my waist.”

There’s a slight moment of hesitation, doubt, but then Jason nods slightly. He can feel the bunch of muscle, then release, and when the boy’s feet leave the ground he hoists him up by the grip on his thigh. The boy’s got some weight to him, but it’s not nearly enough to be a strain. Thighs press in hard around his waist, second arm joining the first in looping over his shoulders. Unnecessary, but he isn’t going to complain about the boy clinging to him. The pressure’s not unpleasant.

Also, since Jason’s gripping tight enough to more or less support himself, it’s easy to shift his grip down and take the boy’s ass in both hands, one firm cheek to each palm. Jason inhales sharply, pulse jumping a bit, but it only distracts him for a couple moments. Long enough for Slade to squeeze his ass just once, deciding it’s more than satisfactory. Could be firmer, but the boy hasn’t been raised to be made of that much muscle.

His head’s dropped towards Slade’s shoulder, the slide of a half-hard cock against his stomach making his increasing arousal obvious, but it doesn’t seem to have made him any less curious. “If you’re not one of the Lords, who are you?”

“A mercenary,” he answers, considering the merits — past the boy’s shoulder — of going straight to the bed versus pressing him back up against one of those wooden posts of it. “I lead one of the largest troupes on the continent, for hire to the highest bidder.” He smirks, refocusing on Jason. “Or whoever offers the best benefits. Your masters want to hire me; they have a war that they want my support for. Or the support of my army, at least.”

He heads for the bed. Pinning the boy back against the wood would be fun, but he better likes the idea of having him spread out over the sheets. He wants to be able to see every inch of reaction he wrings out.

They’re deep red — to best hide blood stains, most likely — and the contrast of tanned skin and black hair against them is aesthetically pleasing, no doubt. Slade notices and dismisses it in the same moment, to focus on the far more important aspect of having Jason spread out beneath him. Bare skin, now only covered by the ornate, matching cuffs at biceps and ankles; a barrier that he’s quick to remove.

When he sees the boy’s mouth open, then close again with a small frown, he lifts an eyebrow. “Another question?” He rises to a kneel and lowers hands to his pants, after Jason nods a silent confirmation. “Ask it, boy.”

Jason lifts up onto his elbows, watching him strip the last of his clothing off. “Your army, is it all vampires?”

Slade chuckles. “No, not remotely. Most of my command structure is, as are my most elite soldiers, but the large majority of my men are human. A force comprised solely of one or the other has too many weaknesses; I built mine to be effective in any situation.”

He seems to still be listening, even though his attention’s certainly fallen further south as things have been revealed. Slade watches the bob of his throat as he swallows, and climbs back on the bed, smoothing a hand up one long thigh. When he presses it out, making room for himself between the boy’s legs, Jason lets his arms slide out from under him to rest on his back again.

“Is that why they don’t like you? The Lords?”

His fingers linger on the inside of the boy’s thighs, but he arches a sharp eyebrow. “Don’t think it was your turn, boy. You just asked a question.”

There’s a little upwards tick in the beat of the boy’s heart, but also a challenging cast that comes over his expression. Nervous, but challenging. “No, you _ordered_ me to ask a question. I did; that makes it my turn.”

Slade pauses, but no, Jason’s not wrong. It’s a technicality he’d be likely to exploit himself, if someone had given him the opportunity. Not bad at all. Probably not much chance to learn more than basic schooling as a blood slave, but the boy's apparently sharp regardless.

“Hm.” He inches his fingers higher, enjoying the little restrained twitches of the boy's hips in reaction. “I imagine there are many reasons why your masters don't like me. But yes, my willingness to work with humans — or for them, if the price is right — is probably one of the larger contributors. They live under the mistaken impression that you're inferior to us, just because we feed on you.”

Oh, he can see how the words burn at the boy's tongue, but he presses his lips together and doesn't ask whatever it is, despite the obvious desire to. Slade smirks.

“Last question, boy.” He lifts a hand, reaching over the boy’s torso to trace one corner of his lips. “I’ve got other things to do with your mouth.”

He can feel the exhale against his fingertips, hot and slightly unsteady. “You don’t think humans are inferior?”

It’s almost tremulous, how he says it. Disbelieving, and hopeful. Odd, except for the reminder that the boy was raised under the control of these self-important lords. No doubt, their slaves are inundated with just such a worldview; humans are the lesser race, good only for how they can serve their masters. What drivel.

“Physically, perhaps, but being stronger and faster doesn’t make us better all around. After all, for the majority of the day, we can't travel without risking death.” He huffs a breath of amusement, leaning forward to support himself over the boy on both hands. “You may not see well at night, but it doesn't try and kill you, does it? We're predators, boy, not gods. Each of our races has strengths and weaknesses.”

Slade shifts his weight to a single hand, and slides the other over to cup the side of Jason’s head, pressing a thumb to the corner of his mouth.

“Now, that’s enough questions. If you have more when we’re done, maybe you can ask them then.” He taps his thumb as reminder, as he adds, “But _only_ when we’re done.”

Jason nods, just a very small shift of his head. “Got it.”

“Good. Now just relax, boy, and follow my lead.” An inclination of his head gets him close enough to press his mouth to the side of the boy’s jaw, then down to his throat. The blood rushing there is a siren’s call, but he restrains himself to a small, dull nip of teeth. _Later_. “You’re welcome to touch, if you’ve got the courage.”

He does have the courage, as it turns out. His hands are tentative at first, but as Slade works him higher they grow firmer, dull nails digging in against his skin as the boy clings to him. He counts it as a personal victory when, his mouth diverted to lower places, fingers curl into his hair without even the pretext of permission. Why not allow it, anyway? Jason can’t hurt him without extreme effort, and a little hair-pulling’s never managed that.

The boy’s refreshingly honest about his reactions too, and Slade finds himself thoroughly enjoying the sounds he coaxes free. He appreciates the bitten back groans and gasps far more than the performative moans most slaves give, exaggerated and inappropriate for the touches they’re receiving. He’s always liked honesty better than hearing what people expect him to want.

Past the practical inexperience, the boy’s body proves his training. It gives easily to his touch, the slick of what oil remains easing the way. There’s a decent amount, but more would be better. However, a quick look in the drawers beside the bed fails to turn up any further supplies. Not surprising, he was never actually meant to enjoy Jason, only to be insulted, maybe take out frustrations on him. He'll have to be careful.

So he murmurs a low, “Tell me if it's too much,” and then waits for Jason's confirming nod before he begins to push inwards. Slow, rocking forward piece by piece until the boy is shivering, panting, and he's fully seated.

The twist of the boy's face is mostly pleasure, and when he begins to move, no complaint comes. In fact, the boy clings to him harder, thighs pressing in against his hips and hands at his biceps. His cock stands between them as clear evidence of his enjoyment, fully hard and brushing Slade's stomach whenever he leans down to have access to that lovely neck and collarbone. It leaves streaks of dampness along his skin, and the scent of it is strong in his nose whenever he tastes the air, alongside the richness of arousal and pleasure and slowly growing desperation. It's his favorite mix of scents.

The boy's hot inside, slick enough to be pleasant, despite the limited oil. Normally he might restrain himself, work his partner to a first release and then go for a second, but he doubts the oil will last that long. Best not to risk it; humans injure so easily.

“Don’t hold back on me, boy,” he orders instead, picking up the pace of his thrusts somewhat.

Jason nods, apparently too breathless for words. One hand comes up to his hair, tunneling through it and then trying to pull him down. For a moment he resists, amused by the pleading expression that flits across the boy's face before he decides to relent. The nails of the other hand scrape over Slade's back as he allows himself to be pulled into a kiss, except that the boy bites his bottom lip instead, hard enough to get a grunt of surprise from him. It barely stings, no blood drawn, but Slade finds himself amused regardless. Payback for his moment of teasing, perhaps?

The boy's proving to be of far more interest than most slaves; he's got some teeth to him, and some balls.

He gives a snort of amusement, mouth curling at one side before he retaliates. His bite's lighter, but it does make the boy moan for him, fingers tightening in his hair. It's difficult to release the thin, fragile skin without breaking it, but he diverts his attention to jaw and neck instead and manages to resist. The anticipation coils in his veins, making his thrusts sharper, one of his hands curling tight in the sheets beneath them. His gums itch, canines wanting to extend to their full length of fang, even as he holds them back.

Even without true hunger, the desire is powerful.

The boy comes to the ledge before he does, trembling against him, gasping something close to his name as his thighs tighten to potentially bruising levels. Close, _so_ close. Slade shifts his weight to one hand and slides the other between them, finding the length of the boy's cock and encircling it to stroke along with his thrusts. It only takes a few moments.

The cry of his release is satisfyingly loud, throat thoughtlessly baring as his head tosses back, wetness spilling between them and throwing heavy scent into the air. Slade bites his own lip to stop himself taking what's been offered, letting the smell and the sound and the shuddering tension of the boy's frame carry him to his own peak. It isn't immediate, but it comes far sooner than he'd ordinarily allow to happen, and he groans his pleasure as he pushes himself to it with a last few thrusts. The boy gives breathless, pleasured sounds for each, and then a soft moan when he spills, stilling deep inside.

Pleasure sweeps in under his skin, a rolling wave of it that leaves languid, easy relaxation in its wake. He exhales unnecessarily, swiping a tongue over his lip to catch any stray bits of blood his bite may have drawn, before he opens his eye.

Jason's looking up at him, mouth parted to breathe more deeply, his eyes partially lidded. Fetching, with his cheeks flushed and lips reddened, hair dampened with sweat and clinging to his skull. What a human thing, sweat.

He lifts his clean hand, tracing fingers down the side of the boy’s face. “Enjoy that?” he asks, maybe a little smug.

“Pretty sure that's obvious,” is the counter, breathless but still coming across as pointed as intended.

The smile that curls his lips is almost followed by a laugh, but he restrains it. He does have a dangerous fondness for mouthy, handsome boys; probably best to get this done with before he develops some sort of attachment.

Slowly, he eases out of the boy, to a faint grimace of discomfort. A small inhalation doesn't give him any scent of blood, however, and a brief glance shows only the reddening that might be expected from a not-quite-sufficient amount of lubrication. Nothing worrying; he might be sore for a bit, but nothing more. Likely the reaction was more about sensitivity than pain.

He sits back, trailing fingers down the boy's thighs and considering where to bite. Usually, it's ill manners to bite a gift's throat unless you intend to keep it, but then, it's ill manners to give a mouthy, same gender, challenging gift to begin with. He's not all too concerned with what they think of him, and he's not above being petty. It won't hurt the boy's chances here any more than his attitude undoubtedly already has.

“Beauty to watch, boy,” he praises, as he leans back down to slide a hand under the boy's neck, lifting it into a small arch. “Close your eyes.”

Jason swallows, but obeys, his eyes flickering closed. Slade takes a moment to just take the sight in before he lets his fangs finally slide out to their full length, and then lowers his head towards the tempting length of that arched throat.

A hand hits his chest.

“No, wait. _Don't_.”

Slade pins the boy down before he's even truly begun to struggle, hissing through his teeth as he shoves the offending hand down to the bed. Jason gasps, twisting against the grip on his neck with another denial coming off his tongue as, “Wait, just _wait_.”

Irritation drives him to let go, but only to grab Jason by the front of his throat instead, shoving him down and snarling as warning and threat both. It gets wide eyes to look at him, at least.

“ _Still_ , boy,” he demands. He gets it, the boy's other hand halfway lifted but not touching him, yet. He flexes his grip, drawing a choked sound, and warns, “You have a very short time to give me a very good explanation, Jason.”

“Poisoned,” he rushes out, blue-green eyes wide, pulse fast but steady beneath his palm. “I'm poisoned. They want you dead.”

His eye narrows. An assassination attempt? Through the boy? What would the lords gain from that?

“Cut me,” the boy demands, offering his free hand. “See for yourself.”

If it's a lie, it can't do any harm. If it's the truth…

Slowly, he lets go of the boy's throat and straightens up, shifting to kneel over his waist. He takes the offered hand and brings it up, lengthening his nails with a breath of effort so he can smoothly slice a shallow line into the back of it. The boy makes a sharp, quickly bitten back sound of pain. No, never been cut before, has he? Never bled or scarred.

The blood beads to the surface slowly. It smells fine, rich, so he swipes a finger through it.

It takes a moment, but just on the edge of accusing the boy of lying his skin begins to burn. Not intensely, but noticeably.

He frowns, sheathing nails and fangs both before moving to wipe his finger free on the sheets. Silver, likely. Some kinds are harmless to humans in small doses. Not enough to seriously harm on contact, but if he'd bitten a more prominent vein and drank deep? Death, certainly. Slow, and painful, but eventually it would burn through him. Even if it didn't kill, he'd be weak to any following attack. Draining a gift dry enough to create his own demise would be much more likely if he was angered by the insult of it.

Well, isn't that interesting.

“Press the sheets against that,” he orders, somewhat distracted.

He stands as the boy obeys, getting off the bed and heading for the partitioned washroom to one side. He brushes the cloth of the division aside; there's no bath drawn, but there is a small basin of water. Suitable enough for his purposes.

Caution pushes him to test the water with just the tip of a finger, before he lowers both hands into it to wash them clean.

The boy really is a slave, no doubt about that. He has the looks, the unmarked skin, all of it. So it's his masters, or someone disgruntled, that poisoned him before sending him in here. Some enemy of the lords would make the most sense, as an attempt to stop him from taking a contract with them, but slaves like this are closely guarded, and only by trusted servants. Besides, that would mean both the poisoner and the boy were traitors to these lords, and that's unlikely. Far more likely that one of the lords ordered it done; they have the access, the means, all of it.

Maybe they thought killing him would leave his army leaderless, up for the taking by anyone prepared. Incorrect, but to those that don't know the structure of his army, or his commanders, it could be possible.

He takes the basin with him, as well as both the small cloths beside it.

Jason's sitting up, sheets pressed against the back of his hand, back bowed some as he curls around it. He looks up when Slade comes back into view.

He sets both cloths and the water on the bed. “Wash off, then use one of those to stem the bleeding. Steady pressure.”

The boy peers at him with clear wariness, but the arch of an eyebrow prompts him to start to move. Still slow, but it's progress. Slade watches the water tinge very faintly pink, considering the angles of this thing. They'd have the intelligence to wait till they had proof before declaring him as dead, surely, so whatever the plan it likely was supposed to begin when afternoon comes again, after he would fail to show to the negotiation. His dust wouldn't leave the method of death clear, so they could blame it on an assassination, an ambush, or anything else that fit their narrative. Kill the boy, probably, to destroy the only witness, and then move on with his death a tragic motivation for his army.

It wouldn't have gone as they planned, regardless of his survival, but he's not surprised they underestimated his men’s loyalty. And their independence.

Then there's the boy… No good end there, but death by an enraged, dying vampire is hardly the sort of end that anyone wishes for. The alternatives must have been much worse for him to agree to do this.

He crosses his arms, studying the bow of the boy’s shoulders. “You were ordered to do this?”

Jason lifts his head, cloth pressed tight to his hand, now. “Yeah. It was this, or getting handed off to the guardsmen. They said if I survived, they'd let me go.” Unlikely, but there's not enough of a pause for him to say so before the boy snorts, gaze falling to the sheets. “They were probably just going to kill me afterwards anyway, but at least this was a fast death, not getting torn into by the guards. Take what I can get.”

Slade tilts his head, angling to better listen to the thud of his heart. Even; the boy’s either a phenomenal liar, or telling the truth as he believes it. “This could have been over with much sooner,” he points out. “I gave you the choice, whether I would feed before or after.”

A flush bleeds into the boy’s cheeks, and he scowls a little. “Yeah, well maybe I wanted to know what sex was like before I died.” He shrugs, pulling his hand closer in towards his chest. “Get _something_ out of this.”

A moment of consideration passes before Slade steps forward, sinking down to a crouch before where Jason sits. “And yet, you didn’t go through with it.” Blue-green eyes flick up to meet his. He holds the look. “Why is that, boy?”

The boy curls a little further in on himself, gaze dropping down to his hands again. His tone’s defensive, almost a little angry. “I’m going to die, alright? At your hands, or theirs, or the guards, it doesn’t matter. Just seemed like a bad idea to take the only one of your kind that’s ever treated me like I could think down with me.” Another shrug, a little less aggressive. “So fuck it; whatever they do to me, now you know what they were planning. Maybe you’ll even do something about it.”

Hm. As motivations go, vengeance is an easy one to understand, and being pushed into a no-win scenario is definitely an easy way to inspire it. So is being ill suited for being a slave from the very start, but being shoved into the role anyway. He's starved for any hint of kindness, any recognition of the fact he has a mind and existence beyond a pretty appearance. Laughably easy to manipulate. Loyal, if someone were to give him what he's craving.

Reminds Slade of another boy he took in, decades ago.

“I might,” is what he decides to answer.

He stands, and Jason watches him with a suddenly disbelieving edge. “You're not seriously just going to let them get away with trying to kill you, are you?”

“That's not what I said, is it?” He takes the basin of water and other cloth and sets them on the ground. “There are plenty of possibilities; by the time they call to re-gather this evening, I'll have picked one.” He reaches forward, and the boy flinches slightly but holds his ground, tense right up till Slade's fingers pass through his hair in a gentle stroke. “Relax, boy, I'm not going to kill you. Not now, anyway.”

The boy shudders a bit, but stays still. Stays watching him, as well. Perhaps not trusting his word, or perhaps simply trying to predict what he’ll do next. Difficult to be sure. It hardly matters to him, anyway. For the moment, he’s willing to let his subconscious do some of the work of puzzling things out while he sets it all aside.

He lets his hand fall away from the boy’s head. “There’s more than enough time before anything needs to be decided. I’m going to rest some, in the meantime. Get in the bed; you can sleep or not, I don’t care.”

Jason frowns. “So you just want me to be, what, a pillow?”

“Or I can chain you back up to the bedpost,” he offers, arching an eyebrow. “The sex was good, and you did me a favor, boy, but I don’t know you. You’re not roaming free while I sleep. You can be under my arm, or chained to the post. Your choice.”

After a second of staring at him, and then a rough snort, the boy slowly crawls back up to the top of the bed. He's still got the cloth pressed to his hand, but it only makes him a bit awkward in climbing in beneath the sheets. Slade moves to douse the lights once he settles, plunging the room into darkness. There's still a sliver of light coming in from beneath the door, enough for him to make his way back to the bed and climb in behind the boy, pressing up against his back.

He’s only a few inches shorter, taller than anyone Slade’s bedded in a long time. He stretches out, wrapping his arm over the boy’s chest and pulling him close, one long line of heat and life with a heart beating hard near where his hand rests. Tense, though.

“Relax,” he drawls, stroking fingers over the boy’s chest. “What am I going to do, bite you?”

He feels the deeper rise of Jason’s chest, then the slow exhale. Slowly, muscle gives and leaves the boy more or less loose against him, head tucked down against the pillow. The back of his neck is bare, tempting to rest his mouth against, even without any intention to bite down. Temptation, however, is not the best thing to indulge in here.

“Get some rest, boy.” He only murmurs the order, to not startle the boy into tension again.

Jason huffs a little breath, but despite his muttered, “Yeah, sure,” he does fall into a deeper, steady pattern of breathing. Not quite asleep, but maybe actively trying.

Slade closes his eye and follows suit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Second chapter, good things, please do enjoy. XD
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)   
>  You can find my Pillowfort here!

It’s fast, deliberate action from the second Slade nudges him awake. He gets just a couple seconds to blink sleep out of his eyes — can hardly believe he actually fell asleep, with Slade’s lukewarm skin and utter stillness at his back — before he’s being directed to clean himself up and get dressed back up in the red drapes and gold the Lords put him in to start with.

Slade’s already clothed, sword at his waist and everything back in place down to the last button; must have done it before waking him up. He hardly looks like anything even happened, which Jason finds a little unfair given that he can feel the soreness between his legs with every movement. It's brought into especially sharp relief when he has to reach down and clean that piece of himself. No blood, far as he can tell, and no real pain, it's just sore and sensitive.

The cut on the back of his hand’s an angry red, and it hurts a lot more than he was expecting something so minor to. It’s not bleeding anymore, though, which is one good thing. If it scars the Lords won’t like it, but his life’s pretty much on a short track to ending anyway so what does he care what they’ll like? Almost makes him want to pick at it, despite the pain, but he shakes the impulse off, just like he's shaken off every impulse since he was a child to hurt himself, to mar something to get him out of this life.

When Jason’s ‘dressed’ he goes to Slade, who takes a single glance at his hand, frowns slightly, and then turns to the bed, ripping off a strip of the top-most sheet with a couple hard pulls. He bites his tongue against a protest, not really understanding until Slade takes his hand and begins to wrap the smooth cloth around it.

“You're going to need to learn to take care of yourself in the real world. Keep wounds clean and covered when possible, to start with.” Slade tugs the wrap tight enough to make him wince at the pressure, and ties it off. “You humans get infected sometimes, otherwise. Makes your blood sour.”

“Thanks,” he replies, on automatic, before the words process. A frown comes, as Slade takes his arm and steers him towards the door. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘real world?’ They're going to kill me.”

“They might.” It's barely an agreement, but then they're out of the room and Slade's letting go of him, ordering, “Keep pace,” and then striding off.

Normally Jason doesn't have a problem with that, given that he's taller than most people in this place, but Slade's legs are long and this stupid sheer, red drape thing doesn't like to open far enough to let him match that kind of step. So he hurries, keeping a hand on the cloth to drag it up out of the way of his feet and only taking steps as long as he's sure he can without tripping. Oh, and that is a whole _new_ sore feeling popping up. Not completely bad, but… not great. The kind of sore he might enjoy if he was still stretched out in a bed, or in a bath, but not with all this walking.

He's just glad that the little clamps are gone. He didn't see them when he was dressing, and he wasn't about to ask if Slade knew where they were. They stung, and he's not eager to have them on again. Not… out here, anyway. They maybe weren't all bad, with Slade.

If he got just one thing before getting executed, Jason's glad this was it. Getting to know what real sex was like — not just mimicry, to train — with someone not completely nasty or cruel, and one chance to kick all the Lords in the teeth. To hell with all of them, dragging him off the streets just because some passing bastard liked the color of his eyes. He wants to know the _world_ , not just the corridors of the manor and the little section of garden hidden away in its center. He wants a life.

Stupid to think about, though, because he's known since they took him he was never going to get it. He's no good at this, it's not — he almost snorts, except for the concentration on his steps — in his blood. No matter how he tried to rein himself in, please, he just doesn't fit the mold they wanted him to. He can't help it.

It's at the same moment that Slade slows that Jason recognizes where they are, just outside the main lounge, where the guests are received and coaxed. Most of the slaves go there as entertainment, but Jason's only ever been brought to watch, see examples of what might happen to him. He's really not supposed to be here without being summoned. He's not supposed to be anywhere _near_ here.

Slade looks back at him, brushing the fall of his cloak aside to reach out a hand as well. It tips his chin slightly upwards. “Eyes down, back straight, stay at my heels and stay silent. Understood?”

He nods, confused but that's not important. Not right now. “Yes.” He still really doesn't want to go in that room. The Lords are probably in there, and other slaves, and he was supposed to kill Slade, not show up the next morning with him.

Slade, however, turns back and shoves open the door without a pause, and he's got no choice but to ignore his hesitancy and follow. There are people in the room, but he keeps his eyes down as ordered and that makes it a bit easier to ignore them. He can feel the weight of their gazes, though, and hear the sudden hush that falls as Slade strides in.

“Evening,” he greets, as if nothing happened, as if everything's _normal_. “I'd hope you haven't gotten started without me, Lords. Ladies.”

He takes a seat in one of the unoccupied armchairs, sprawling into it, and Jason doesn't think before he mimics what he's seen others do and kneels beside one leg, leaning up against it and resting his head against Slade's thigh. Fingers come to his hair almost immediately, stroking back along his scalp. He lets his gaze fall to the carpet beneath them.

“General Wilson,” one of the lords says, with a faint strangled note to his tone. “Hopefully your rest was refreshing?”

“Delightful,” Slade drawls. “Now, we have negotiations to finalize, don't we? You won't mind if I skip straight to business.”

“Of course not.” Different one, a woman. Not strangled, but maybe slightly desperate. “Perhaps a drink, however? Negotiation is thirsty work; I'd be glad to have the servants fetch you something to sate any hunger you may have before we begin.”

“Oh, I don't think this will take long enough for that.” There's no edge to Slade's words, only a dry amusement.

There’s silence, an awkward pause where Jason has to quell the urge to look at some of their faces. Eyes down, stay quiet.

The original one speaks again. “Right, well, we’ve discussed the amounts you’ve proposed. We believe they’re acceptable, given your reputation for victories; we’re willing to sign the deal.”

Slade hums something considering, and the fingers in his hair pause their movements. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid my price has risen, since our discussion.” Another sharp silence, but Slade speaks again before one of them can break it. “Double, up front.”

“You must be joking.”

“Not a bit.” Slade’s fingers leave his hair, coming to trace the side of his neck above the gold of the collar. “See, it’s my ‘attempted assassination’ fee. I keep my word, but when someone who doesn’t wants to hire me, well, I don’t trust promises from them.”

Faint hisses, drawing Jason's shoulders tight with tension before Slade's hand falls to his upper back, steady against his skin. With it there, he manages to breathe away the little kick of adrenaline those noises woke, easing back against Slade's leg in the next couple seconds.

“Assassination? Absolutely ridiculous, this is an insult, General Wilson. This extortion—”

“Drink from the boy, then.”

In the silence the challenge brings, Slade nudges him away with gentle pressure, and stands. A light tug to the hair at the back of his head encourages him to stand as well, and he swallows but does it. A hand presses broad and flat against his low back. He thinks, maybe, he should be leaning into Slade's side and looking more at ease, but he can't bring himself to. It's hard enough to just stand there, feeling the burn of the Lords’ gazes on him, the only barrier between him and them another of their kind, probably not really on his side. Deep, old instinct wants him to run like hell and not look back, to get away from this room of predators. Failing that, if he just stays as still as possible…

“He's poisoned,” Slade says, into the silence. “Silver. I don't really care if it was one of you getting greedy, or an agreement between all of you to try to take me off the field. You can take the terms I'm offering, or leave them. That's the choice.”

There's muttering that he can't make out, below what's audible for him, though Slade can probably hear it. Whatever it is, he doesn't react to it.

A few moments later the hand falls away from his back, and Jason doesn't have the time to even worry about what the distance means before there's light pressure against his neck. The collar hinges open, and is dropped to the floor in front of him. He blinks, staring at it. The earring gets pulled from his closer ear, then the further one. Both dropped as well.

“What do you think you're doing?” one of the Lords asks, pretty much echoing what Jason's thinking.

An armband hits the carpet. Slade sounds entirely unbothered by the hostility of the question. “Tradition; a gift of blood and wealth, one to keep.” The other armband. “A handful of gold doesn't interest me, so I'll take the boy.” A tap to his shoulder, Slade’s voice lowering to speak just to him. “Take the ankle cuffs off.”

He kneels on automatic, twisting just enough to get a hand on one cuff, and then the other. It’s when he drops them that the words really hit him.

Slade’s… _taking_ him. Taking him with him? Away from the manor? (To kill him himself, or is this…? No, better not to even hope.)

Before he can stand, a heavy weight settles over his shoulders. The velvet of Slade’s cloak, warm and huge, covering him like a giant blanket. Fingers trace the shell of his ear, then pass through his hair, and the same light tug to a few strands encourages him to get back on his feet. He holds the edges of the cloak around his shoulders, making sure it doesn’t slide off as he straightens and breathes away any thought of what comes next. He’s going with Slade, but whatever happens, happens, and he doesn’t want to think about the chance of a life that might never come.

He’s probably still going to die. It’s as simple as that.

“So?” Slade prompts. “Do you have a decision, Lords? Ladies?”

They don’t answer immediately, but when one does the tone’s clearly hostile. “It’s an outrageous accusation, and an outrageous price. We won’t be extorted, General Wilson.”

There’s no hesitation. “Very well; I’ll take my leave, then.”

Slade rests a hand on his back, stepping around in front of him and pressing him lightly towards the exit. Jason’s glad for the barrier between him and the Lords; he can still feel the violent intent in the air, but at least Slade’s in the way if anything does happen. He’s a general, right? Leader of a mercenary army? Surely he can handle it if anyone attacks.

“We’ll tell everyone of this, Wilson,” one of the women spits from behind them. “You don’t deal as honorably as your reputation suggests.”

“Go ahead,” Slade answers, pushing the door open but turning to look back. “I’ll tell everyone of how I was sent a silver-poisoned boy as a gift An insult on one hand, and an attempt to kill me on the other. Speaking of which, if any of your guards raise a blade to me, I’ll come back here and kill you all where you stand. Just so we understand each other.”

Jason’s skin flushes cold at the cool warning, but a push to his back propels him out the door when his own feet don’t want to move enough to take him.

No one stops them from leaving the room, and then the manor itself. There are guards at the main door — Jason’s only even seen it… once or twice? Slave quarters are so much deeper inside the walls — but they only eye Slade warily, neither makes a move to do anything about them walking through.

Then there’s _air_. Air and fading dusk, the stars just coming out in a black and purple sky, pinpricks of light in incomprehensible patterns—

“Come on, kid,” Slade says, pulling him up against his side. “You’ll have plenty of time to stare at the sky once we’re on the move.”

Oh and it's _cold_. He drags the cloak a little tighter around himself, but the marbled stone is cool and a little grimy under his feet, leeching up into his legs as he tries to match Slade's pace. There's a carriage waiting, a young man standing next to the open door as well as a driver up behind the horses. The man at the door has crossed arms, a sword at his waist same as Slade's and the same style of neat, formal clothing in shades of black and dark blue. Black hair, brilliant blue eyes that barely look natural, and skin just tan-toned enough to make his foreign heritage obvious.

Jason hasn't cared about where people are from in a long time, but he remembers as a kid… Foreigners were the best targets; didn't know the city well enough to chase.

“I take it by the rushed leaving and lack of celebration that we don't have a contract,” the man says, as they get closer. “Failed to mention we'd have company when you told me to have the carriage ready.”

Slade makes a non-committal sound. “Hadn't decided it yet.”

“Yeah you had.” The blue eyes turn to him, and Jason almost jumps to avert his gaze except the blue is… Entrancing. Beautiful. “So who's this then?”

Fingers snap in front of his face. He flinches and then startles, taking a sharp breath that feels like the first one after being underwater.

“Jason. Don't thrall him.”

“Mm, so not a meal, then.” The man — vampire; skin tone hid the paleness — shifts just slightly to the side as Slade climbs into the carriage, just enough they pass without brushing.

From inside the carriage somewhere, Slade's voice says, “He's poisoned; wouldn't recommend it. Get in, boys.”

An eyebrow lifts, but the man steps a bit further to the side and offers him a helping hand. “I'm Commander Grayson. Dick, if you want.”

“Jason,” he answers, on automatic.

He takes the hand on automatic too, and easy strength steadies him as he climbs up the folded-down step and into the cabin. It's immediately a little warmer, and Slade is quick to pull him down onto the seat next to him. An arm settles around his shoulders, and he adjusts the cloak to act as as much of a blanket as he can manage to try and chase the chill away. Dick climbs in to sit on the other side, tugging the door shut and then lifting a hand to rap against the roof.

They start to move.

“So,” Dick starts, leaning forward onto his knees as they rattle over what sounds like stone. “Going to give me an explanation, Slade? Or am I guessing?”

Slade hums, settling more heavily against the seat. “It’s always fun to watch you guess.”

“For _one_ of us.” Dick shakes his head and looks over to him, and even though Jason tenses in anticipation his eyes are just… pretty. His head stays clear. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Um…” He glances up to Slade, but his eye is closed, head leaned back. It's probably… fine. "The Lords poisoned me, sent me to him. Told me I could go free, if I survived." He shrugs, pulling the cloak a bit tighter. "Didn't go through with it."

"You warned Slade," Dick fills in, hands clasped between his knees. "Thank you; that probably took a lot of courage."

He's pretty sure it's not courage to pick the slightly less shitty of two options, but he's not going to argue. If this 'Commander Grayson' likes him, maybe— No. He already decided: no hoping for things that aren't going to happen.

"You're a blood slave, right?"

Jason nods, but chances another glance up at Slade. Is he, still? He was, back under the Lords, but… "I guess so."

Dick looks at Slade too, pausing a moment, and then shifts further over on his side of the seats. "Why don't you come over here?" he invites, indicating the now open section of seat beside him. "Come sit with me."

Slade grunts, the arm around his shoulders tightening slightly. "Why?"

"Don't be an ass, Slade," Dick says immediately, and then smiles at him, offering a hand. "Come on; he won't stop you."

It doesn't seem like a great idea, but Slade huffs and the arm pulls back, fingers pushing at his back as they pass.

When he takes the hand, the same effortless strength pulls him to the other seat, steadying him against the movement of the carriage until he's sitting at Dick's side. An hand rests against his thigh, the other idly adjusting where the cloak's fallen open to cover his skin again. That, more than anything, lets him relax just a little. One tiny bit of kindness in all the uncertainty.

"Don't worry," Dick says, voice lowered as if it's just for him. "He's not going to hurt you, and neither am I."

"I might," Slade says, from the other side of the carriage.

Dick's reply is an instant, "No he won't," without even a glance towards him. "Slade's got a big, glaring weakness for black-haired, blue-eyed boys that don't _take his shit_." The last words are louder, aimed at Slade along with a sharp smile. "Don't you?"

Slade looks disgruntled, but he doesn't argue, just crosses his arms and closes his eye again. "Brat."

"Your fault, _sire_. I wouldn't be, if I wasn't right about you."

"He made you?" Jason asks, before he can think about why it might be a bad idea. Is it rude, to ask? He has no idea.

Dick only nods, though. "Yeah. He picked me up when I was younger, lost. Turned me years later."

He looks at Slade, grip tightening on the cloak. His wrapped hand throbs. "Are you going to turn me?" He doesn't know whether it's fear in his chest, exactly. He just… He doesn't think he wants to be like them. He's _human_ , and maybe that makes him weaker than them, more fragile, but he doesn't know if he can pay the cost of being _more_.

Slade's eye opens, meeting his gaze. After a pause, he answers, "No. Not unless you want me to."

The surge of relief is more intense than he expected. Jason sags slightly, the breath caught in his lungs coming out in a rush as he leans into the seat. The hand at his thigh squeezes lightly, pulling his attention back to Dick.

"For now, we're heading back to the army." A nod towards Slade. "He wants you to stay, be a companion while we teach you how to survive out here. Does that sound alright?"

"Yeah," he agrees, cautious but maybe just— just slightly hopeful. If any of this is real. "Are you going to feed from me?"

Dick smiles again, a little brighter. "If you'll let us, we'd like to. Your choice, though; you don't have to agree. It's not going to affect whether you can stay."

It definitely sounds better than any of his other options. It's not like he has anything to call his own, or anywhere to go, or any idea of how to live without a trainer and a master. What other real choice does he have, but to go along with this and just hope that it's better than what he's escaping?

"Alright." He nods, and then looks to Slade and gives a second, smaller one. Everything else that comes to mind to say feels like a bluff, so he leaves it there. He doesn't trust himself to sound even a little believable, saying what he doesn't actually believe.

"Good." Dick's hand squeezes his thigh for the second time, somehow not feeling sexual but only… reassuring. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

He actually is, yeah. He hasn't eaten since hours before he was taken to Slade's room, and he really hasn't had the time to think about it, but yeah. Not all of the tightness of his stomach is nerves.

"Yeah, I am."

"We'll stop somewhere," Dick promises, looking to Slade and getting a confirming nod. "Feel free to relax; we'll keep an eye out."

"We're outside the walls," Slade says, which doesn't make much sense until he tilts his head towards the curtain opposite the door and adds, "If you still want to stare at the sky, that is."

He looks towards the window.

Yes. Yes he does.


End file.
